Through the Eyes of the Dunedain
by Psycho Goddess
Summary: A character study story set in Bree years before the War of the Ring. The innkeeper's daughter and a Ranger--it was never meant to be a match made for the Valar, but neither were they. (OCOC romance, CC secondary)
1. Arrival

Title: Through the Eyes of the Dunedain

Summary: A character study story set in Bree years before the War of the Ring. The innkeeper's daughter and a Ranger--it was never meant to be a match made for the Valar, but neither were they.

Pairings: Ellen/Gorlim

Rating: PG 13

Category: Drama/Romance

Author's Notes: The Breelands have been my favourite part of Middle Earth for years, especially with their unique relationship with the Rangers. My imagination was captured by this fine balance, and this story sprung from it. for those who are wondering, the story takes place ABOUT 40 years before the War of the Ring, but that's a rough timeline. That makes the innkeeper's name quite reasonable, and it's not a crime against canon. ^-^ Barliman has his dues paid in the form of his younger self appearing once or twice. 

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, and I hope the great Professor isn't turning over in his grave. There have been greater blasphemies in fanfiction. 

~... .....-*-... .....~

I had dismounted at the gate, opting to travel by foot in my quest to find The Prancing Pony. A small inn, owned by a man most referred to as simply Butterbur. His establishment had a reputation; a warm bed, no questions, and, for those who indulged, the finest ale in the Breelands.

The dark wet of raindrops showed on the dirt road beneath my feet when lightning illuminated the sky, but I scarcely noticed. It was not so much a Ranger's habit of paying no heed to the elements as a desire to see my duty done.

The sons of Rangers always imagine the excitement of orc hunts, or the apprehension of thieves. So few realize the patience and time it takes to make these adrenaline pumping raids, and the number of untraceable lies that must be followed. It was not long ago that I myself realized the excitement we imagined was a rarity, the one dream that kept us doing these thankless tasks. Saving lives is well and good, but after years of shoddy treatment, we begin to lose that glow of pride.

If it were not for the Dunedain, a single band or orcs or wargs would destroy the people of the Breelands. Their system of defense was evadible, and the only weapon I have heard used by villagers is the rusted excuse for a sword the gatekeeper keeps at his post.

Another bolt reveals a worn sign beating in time with the wind. A white pony, or what is left of one, is the wood's only ornament. 

I enter, and a portly gentleman arrives.

"Hullo," he says. "Be you seeking accommodations?"

"Indeed, my fine gentleman. But first a drink perhaps, to warm chilled bones?" 

I am tempted to sigh with frustration, flash my sword and receive some real service, but I resist. The only warning that I felt deserved any merit was from Halbarad, a man who had been old since time immemorial. _"They're fine folks, those Breelanders. But they spook easily. Take it slow, they don't like strange men in cloaks. A threat they can no longer remember."_

"Of course. I am the innkeeper, Gearge Butterbur."

I note that he does not ask for mine in return, and I wonder at the world he must live in.

He shows me to a common room, and waves a girl over before leaving to attend another customer. She is a tavern maid, no more then twenty. Perhaps it was the smoke circling the room, or the lack of females to compare her to, but she is lovely. Not stunning, but there is some charm behind the tired eyes and weary smile. As she makes her way across the room she expertly avoids hands that were perhaps too familiar. 

She is only a few tables away when a leering man grabs her wrist. She jerks for a moment, but it is clear she has no power, and she gives up. I step forward, and grab her waist as a corner table burst into rowdy song.

"Sorry sir, but this lady owes me a dance," I say pleasantly. He glares briefly, but there is nothing he can do and he knows that well. 

"Thank you," she says, as a twirl her around a makeshift dance floor. 

There is a pause as the song finishes and she catches her breath, then she continues.

"You have not been here before, sir." 

There was no question to her voice, as if she knew every customer that had ever been or would be.

"I am afraid I have not had the pleasure."

"Welcome to Bree," she said, a self-ironical grin flitting across her face.

........................

Reviews Appreciated.


	2. Too Much Ale Can Be Good For A Man

Title: Through the Eyes of the Dunedain  
  
**Summary: **A character study story set in Bree years before the War of the Ring. The innkeeper's daughter and a Ranger--it was never meant to be a match made for the Valar, but neither were they.  
  
**Pairings:** Ellen/Gorlim  
  
**Rating: **PG 13  
  
**Category:** Drama/Romance  
  
**Author's Notes: **Thanks to orange.blossom3 for your encouraging words. Now if only you had managed some points to improve on as well. **;-)**  
  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings, and I hope the great Professor isn't turning over in his grave. There have been greater blasphemies in fanfiction.   
  
~... .....-*-... .....~  


The time passes as it tends to do, and I find myself ordering round after round of ale. Perhaps not an odd thing, for it has been many nights since I have had the pleasure of a roaring fire and drinks. The odd thing, as strange as it is to admit, is that my greatest pleasure comes from my tavern maid's smiling face as she delivers the mugs. The scowling man had left by the end of our dance, and there seems to be an air of warning about her person. The other men joke towards her, and perhaps let hands wander further then need be, but there is restraint to the passion in their eyes now.

For her part, she does not seem to hold my actions in any regard except her initial gratitude. A part of me hopes that those glances she sends me across the room are meant to say more then "Another ale, sir?", but there is no such indication. I finally decide that retiring for the night would be the wisest course of action, and I hail the girl for the final time.

"Another ale, sir?" she asks, her voice carrying a joke hidden to others.

"I wish to be seen to my room."

She gives an exasperated eye rolling, "I suppose my father did not see it fit to bring you to your room before allowing to drink yourself senseless? No bother."

Her next actions surprise me, a fact I find oddly delightful. She hikes her skirts up to climb atop my table. Cupping her hands to her mouth, she calls out. 

"BARLIMAN!"

There is quiet in the room, until a cook mentions that he saw the young boy taking a rest in the storeroom not ten minutes past. She cannot help but smile before the proper annoyance takes its place upon her face.

"I will see which room my brother was meant to bring you to," she apologizes, and walks off. She returns soon, a key in her hand. I follow her silent summons, and make my way down a dimly lit passage.

It is not until we are almost upon our destination that she makes a sound again, and even then it is not words, but merely a small chuckle when I come close to stumbling.

"Does something amuse you?"

"You do, sir."

I suppose I should be grateful she was upfront.

"And what is it that you find so amusing? My clothes perhaps? Does something in my visage bring laughter? Perhaps it is my voice, a rather rough one I fear."

"None of that, sir. Though I do admit they would all be worthy of mirth if our roles were not as they are," she turns to me then, and from the light of the candle she holds I can see her mouth is drawn in a bow of amusement. "It is the mere thought that a Ranger- a Ranger, mind you- comes soaking into the Prancing Pony's common room, dances with a servant, and drinks much more then recommended. 'Tis not a common sight, you can imagine. Usually you folk come a-galloping in on some lovely- if worn- specimen of horse, sit in a dark corner, listen to the local gossip and generally raise suspicions." 

When our visits to the lands are summarized in such a manner, it would take a greater man then me to hide his laughter behind the unfriendly facade we are often guilty of. I laugh, something which I have done very little of as of late. A nagging memory was invoked by her words though, and as realization floods me I give a small groan. Alassë.

"What is it sir?"

"My horse. I left him at the front gate, because..." I fear telling the truth, and I hesitate. "Well, because I was unsure of Bree. How well the streets are built for horses, and such. I cannot imagine how I could have forgotten him."

"Well, I fear you've had too much ale to fetch him now. Where did you leave him? I will bring him to the stables, if you do not mind. We're not big on horses here, seeing how we do more trading then plowing nowadays. I am one of the few who ride. Not that I'm particularly special, mind you, it is just faster to deliver message to the other villages by horseback then foot. My father does a lot of business in Archet and Combe." 

Her strenuous tone tells me that she only desires to please, and perhaps have the chance to prove worthy in a field that does not involve pouring drinks. Against my better judgment, and breaking my cardinal rule, I tell her where I had left the path and hobbled Alassë. Grinning in delight, she brings me into my room, points out a few key features, and prepares to leave. 

"Wait!" I realize too late the desperation in my voice, and try to cull it. "His name is Alassë, but he can be anything but."

She gives me a puzzled look, and I remember that very few humans know much more then Westron.

"Alassë- it means joy. He can give quite a kick when startled, ma'am. Just make sure he sees you coming."

"There are very few who would recommend differently, Ranger," she gives me a puzzled look, as if she suspects there is another reason behind my stopping her.

I watch her leave from my chair in the corner, and wonder about this woman. A tavern maid- the innkeeper's daughter, no less- who could ride, and welcomed a Ranger? It is not a common occurrence, though most definitely not an unwelcome development. I listen as her footsteps recede down the hall, and am startled as they hurry back. She opens the door to my room halfway, peeking her head around the wood.

"Your belongings, sir. Do you wish for me to bring them to your room, or shall I leave them with your mount?"

"It would please me greatly for you to do whichever brings you the least strife."

This is the right answer, for her face takes on a strange glow at the kind words. 

"Very well sir. They will be by your bedside come morn."

She hesitates now, and her face is a battle of emotions. Finally, one wins out, and she sets her jaw resolutely. 

"If you'll be needing anything else, sir, ask for Ellen at the front desk."

"And if you be needing more rescuing, you know where to find Gorlim, Ranger of the Wild."

This amuses her, and I hear her laugh as she closes the door.

The tavern maid's name is Ellen.

........

I *heart* reviews, be they good or bad. "Gr8 story"'s are well and good, but if you could leave some recommendations, I'll love you forever! Errr, or not. Whichever you prefer. ;-)


	3. A Ride to Archet

**Title**: Through the Eyes of the Dunedain

**Summary**: A character study story set in Bree years before the War of the Ring. The innkeeper's daughter and a Ranger--it was never meant to be a match made for the Valar, but neither were they.

**Pairings**: Ellen/Gorlim

**Rating**: PG 13

**Category**: Drama/Romance

**Author's Notes**: Thanks for the reviews to:

Steelsheen- I have to admit the concept of a plot is foreign to me. ;-) Thanks for pointing out I was already two chapters in, and I forgot to bring up the central plot. *blushes* 

Hobbitgirl11- I think that Ellen is probably exactly as she seems, if more then can be expected. As for the timeline, I'd say about 40 years before the war. There are appearances of/references to canon characters throughout the story (including her younger brother, Barliman Butterbur; Gandalf; Elladan and Elrohir; Elrond and Aragorn.) but they aren't meant to take centre stage.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Lord of the Rings, and I hope the great Professor isn't turning over in his grave. There have been greater blasphemies in fanfiction. 

~... .....-*-... .....~

As a rule, I wake early. When there are things to be done, there is no point in wasting perfectly good time. A philosophy which has done me well so far into my life, and will continue to do so. Which lends itself to my first coherent thought upon waking, w_hy does the sunlight stream into my room? My window faces in a westerly direction._

Of course, I realize too late that I have overslept. Perhaps I did drink excessively last night. Thinking of last night reminds me of Alassë. I spy my belongings where Ellen promised they would be, and breathe a sigh of relief. My judgment was not so poor that I endangered anyone.

The common room is empty save a sole patron, sipping soup in a corner. Just as I reach the door Gearge emerges from a back room. 

"I trust you slept well?"

"Your beds are truly the most comfortable of any inn I have ever frequented. May I ask where to find that girl Ellen?"

"She's off and about for now. She won't be back 'til nigh of supper time, when she's needed."

He looks suspicious of my inquiry, so I justify myself. 

"Very well. Give her this for me," I say, flipping him a silver coin. "She did me well last eve, and she ought to be rewarded."

I leave, and head towards the sounds of horses around back. With the Prancing Pony dead until dusk, it is a good time to hear what the other villages have to say. I spy Alassë in a stall, newly fed and in a pleasant mood.

"Hey boy," I say, running a hand over his coat. Ellen must have brushed him down well when she brought him back last night, and I make a mental note to increase her tip. 

The tack room is the other end of the small building, and I hear breathing as I approach. To my surprise, I find young Ellen there, a book open on her lap and her brow furrowed in concentration. Something about the scene strikes me as odd, but even my fine tuned Ranger sense is at a loss to explain what it is exactly.

I cough to announce my presence, and she looks up in startlement. Moving the bound volume off her lap, she stands, and then laughs. She must read some surprise on my face, for she points to the book. 

"An account of the Goblin Wars," she announces in explanation.

Then the oddity strikes me.

"You read."

"Only a bit. I learned so I could help with the accounting books for my father, when mama died."

"You do not need knowledge of the Goblin Wars to balance books," I rationalize.

"I find it interesting, if it is any of your business. Besides, it helps calm some of the dwarves that pass through."

"I had not realized that the histories were so easily available in the common tongue."

"There's a hobbit from the Shire, he comes through now and again. He translates some of the manuscripts held at the Last Homely House, and he lets me read them. He enjoys receiving feedback." 

"Oh yes, I've heard of him. Baggins is his name?"

"The one and only."

"I had not realized he had translated so much."

"You do now. Now what did you come looking for? Surely it was not to bandy words with the hired help."

"I thought I would travel to Archet today, to see how things go there."

A look of horror passes on her face. Groaning, she shakes her head. 

"Archet… Nelson Appledore. I do not suppose you would like a companion?"

"I would welcome one," I say, wondering what has inspired her question.

"Thank you, sir. I was to deliver a letter to Nelson Appledore this morning, but I became so engrossed with my book I forgot," she laughs. 

With surprising speed she is prepared to leave, and walks her old gray mare outdoors. She swings herself into the saddle, and matches her pace with mine. 

As we move I am given my first chance to study her in good lighting. Her skin is the colour of the sickly waning moon, and the first hint of worry lines have already begun to appear. Yet the sharp angles of girlhood have only just become womanly curves, and she carries them as if they are still foreign. There is a spark of potential beauty in her, but it is so far unfulfilled. Her hair is unruly, but it seems to hold the sunlight. Her nose is too large, but her lips are ripe beneath it. Her eyes are so deep a brown that you look past the tiredness hidden in them. An interesting woman.

She catches my gaze, and misinterprets it.

"You pity me, do you not? You wonder why a woman who dreams of the world far away would chose to stay here, and it cannot be reconciled in your mind. This is the life I will know for all of time. Do not pity me Ranger. Adventurers oft times think that we who stay home miss out on a great many things. 'Tis true, in its way. But adventurers miss out on many things themselves. One can never experience all there is or will be, and I rather enjoy my life."

"I did not say a word about your life, or how you chose to live it," I refute. 

"You did not need to, for it was in your eyes," she says, and urges her horse into a quick trot.

I find this oddly amusing, and travel for many minutes contemplating. She felt a need to defend herself when I had not said a word? But it was not the truth she denied, for her very words had spoken it. The for's and against's of adventure had been weighed, and adventure found lacking.

We travel in silence for some time, but Ellen eventually drops her speed to once again match mine. I cannot say what the look upon her face may mean, but it is one of worry.

"Why are you here? You Rangers are not often far from trouble, and when you are rumours reach my ears that it would not have been far off. To me that lends to the thought that you either look out for us folk, or you're rotten through and through. While you travel alone most often, I have seen enough of your kind, and I know your skills. I do not doubt that you would be able to destroy the village in one night. But you have not, so I figure you must be looking out for us. A noble goal indeed, but that makes me wonder why you are here."

The tone of her voice disturbs me, for there is no question. She trusts her logic explicitly, and she is right. I am torn, for how are you meant to explain that reports beyond imagination in scope have reached your ears? That a band of orcs, the largest seen past the Misty Mountains in many years, is headed towards them. Especially when there are so few Rangers left anywhere, and so many are off attending other duties. Our chieftain, Aragorn, has ridden off to his childhood home in Imladris in hopes of bringing back elves to help. But there is little hope in that, and there is genuine worry for Bree. How can you tell someone that there home will soon be destroyed?

Thankfully, I am saved for the moment, for we crest a final hill and Archet lies before us. She forgets her questions for a time, and canters downwards towards the village.

……………

I know, I know. Not much in the form of a plot, but I tend to be horribly slow at this stuff. Reviews, feedback and ego-petting are ALL appreciated.


	4. A Ranger's Duty

** Title:** Through the Eyes of the Dunedain  
  
**Summary:** A character study story set in Bree years before the War of the Ring. The innkeeper's daughter and a Ranger--it was never meant to be a match made for the Valar, but neither were they.  
  
**Pairings:** Ellen/Gorlim  
  
**Rating:** PG 13  
  
**Category:** Drama/Romance  
  
**Author's Notes:** Thanks to:

LDK- I do appreciate your comments, and I have since updated the first chapter to include a timeline warning. In this story, Barliman has yet to come into ownership of The Prancing Pony. 

HobbitGirl11 – Yes! A regular reviewer! Also, thank you for your kind words and your recommendation of my story. 

-For those who are interested, I compile emails to send update notices

-Apologies for any errors in the telling of Gorlim's story, but my copy of The Silmarillion is packed, and it is reconstructed from memory. I tried not to be too specific, so that those who have not read the story did not get confused.

**   
Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings, and I hope the great Professor isn't turning over in his grave. There have been greater blasphemies in fanfiction.   
  
~... .....-*-... .....~

Archet is much smaller then Bree, with only a handful of houses and one public house, The Boar's Head. It is here I pass my time, while Ellen heads to a nearby shoemaker.

I inhabit the darkest corner, and I doubt that most of the men passing through the common room notice the Ranger in a hooded cloak. I suppose that is why I did not notice the man across the room trying to catch my attention inconspicuously. He finally grows tired of whistling a bird's song and approaches me.

"Gorlim, why are you here? Have you not heard?"

I reply in the negative, for it has been nearly a week since I have last received a word from my own. 

"We have been called to fight. There was no lie of numbers, I fear. They would come upon Bree in three days. An ambush is set to waylay them a day's ride out, but there is little hope. There are only twenty men at best, and a handful of elves- the Lords Elladan and Elrohir and a few of their companions. They come in almost triple our number."

My fears have been realized, and I look at my comrade. 

"There is no doubt?"

"None," he says, pity in his voice.

"Very well, I shall ride out come first light tomorrow."

Disapproval shows on his face, but I ignore it.

"I will arrive in due time, without the danger of riding through territory I am unfamiliar with at night."

He acquiesces, and quickly sketches a map to the encampment. 

It is now that Ellen appears as the doorway, and my companion melts away from my side as she approaches.

"Is your snooping complete for the day, Ranger?"

If it were not for the smirk upon her face, I would take offence. Instead, I find myself replying in a very similar line.

"It is indeed. What of your errands? Have you left many more letters in the realm of the forgotten in favour of some history?"

"I am sure I have, but they must be left there for now. It is time to return home sir, or you will miss the dinner hour," she pauses, "And there is no need for such a woebegone expression. The food is perfectly edible, and I will ensure you receive a good portion, if that is your will."

"You are too kind, ma'am. My expression is not at the thought of your food, but at the sorrow of parting from your wonderful company. Tonight must be my last at the inn, for I have been called elsewhere."

She closes her eyes for a moment, and I watch her struggle to regain control of her emotions.

"That is a pity, sir. I found myself rather enjoying your company, if I may be so bold to say. Perhaps you will return when your duties are finished. A new tale to entertain the fires with? The circumstances were not right for you to tell of your adventures last night, but perhaps you will return another time?"

There is a pleading in her voice, the fragile hope that her newest tie to the outside will not be severed as most are. I wish to reassure her that I will return in a short time, and that I will entertain her with adventures for many nights to come. It is an odd thought, but it is sincere. This woman, little more then a girl really, fascinates me in a way that no paid company ever has. But I see the bearer of bad news watching me with guarded eyes across the room, and I remain silent. There is no promise I can make. 

I push myself away from the table I am seated at, and stride from the room quickly. Our horses stand ready, and I am gone before Ellen mounts. She catches up to me though, and does not say a word about my imminent leave-taking. Instead, she asks questions that none could take offense to. 

Her life story is discussed, and I am surprised to learn that she is three and twenty. Her only sibling is a brother named Barliman, who is nearly six years her junior. The inn has been in her family for many years, and it will go to Barliman upon her father's death. Her mother had died in labour, and that child, among others, had been stillborn. It was the fear of such a trait being passed on that had kept several suitors away, and she was yet unmarried.

She asks me about my life, and I have nothing to say. Her attentions then turn to my name.

"Yours is the first name I have been privy to for a Ranger. Gorlim," she rolls the name on her tongue, and finds it pleasing. "Where does it come from? I have not heard anything of such a sort."

"It is old, dating back to the First Age. Gorlim was one of the twelve companions of Barahir, and it was he who eventually betrayed his position to Sauron."

"That is terrible!" she exclaimed, indignity evident on her face. "But who was Barahir?"

It is strange to think that the legends of my people, so vital and well-known to me, are lost to most others. I attempt to explain briefly, and that is enough to satisfy Ellen's curiosity.

"Barahir was a mortal man, leader of the house of Bëor. He fought dark forces with the Noldor- elves-, and he was outlawed. With him traveled twelve companions, including his son Beren, and Gorlim. 

"Now, Gorlim had a wife whom he loved above all else, Eilinel. He knew his choice to fight was right, but he missed her greatly. It was his desire to look upon the house they had shared, and the fact became known to the orcs. Trickery was employed, and when Gorlim next arrived, he saw his wife through the window. He ran to her, but it was an illusion. 

"He was captured, and Sauron promised to reunite him with his beloved Eilinel, if he would reveal the location of Barahir's camp. He does so, and is reunited with his wife- in death. He regrets his betrayal, and comes to Beren in his dreams. He warns Beren of the attack and Beren flees to the camp, but it is too late. The other companions had been slain."

"That is not an honourable namesake, Gorlim," she says, amusement blunting the hurtful words.

I merely smile. "My mother thought that his tale was romantic, for he gave up everything to be with his wife. My mother missed _her_ husband greatly, I fear."

"Your father was a Ranger? I do not blame your mother, for it would grow tiring to have your husband gone for such long periods of time."

"That is what all the women of the _dunedain_ must face, and many would not trade."

"What does that mean, 'dunedain'? I have come across it in my reading once or twice, but I did not realize who these men were."

"'Men of the West', an homage to our heritage. It is not what most people call us, and very few realize we are what we are. It is just as well, for they would never come to terms with it."

"Yet you tell me," she says in wonder.

"You have the intelligence to decide that Rangers are no threat, but are guardians. You deserve to have your answers, or as many as I can supply you with tonight."

While we talk we come upon Bree, and we fall silent for the moment. We do not notice one another as we bring our horses to the stable, and she does not look to me once we are inside. Our friendship does not come here, in this smoke filled room of her people.

It is near midnight when the last stragglers leave, and Ellen comes to me in my room. She stands in my doorway, hands poised upon her stomach. 

"I owe you some answers," I say, leading her into the room. 

"I did not come here for answers, Ranger. You will ride off to danger as the new sun peaks her head over the Southdowns, will you not?"

"Aye."

"Then there is no time for questions," she decides, reaching for my hand.

There is the hint of virginal hesitation as her lips brush mine for the first time, but it is quickly replaced by passion. We will make use of the most comfortable beds in the Breelands tonight…

~*~

It is not until we lie, spent, that she asks of me what I cannot deny.

"Must you leave?"

"I must."

"And you shall not come back, shall you?"

"I may not."

"Then you must tell me what tears you away from me so soon."

"Duty, my lady."

"What duty? Surely there is nothing so important that you would part from me so soon."

"I have sworn to protect these lands until death."

"Is it so bad?"

"It is," I say, kissing her eyelids.

"Then you will need aid! There must be something I can do, carry messages perhaps?" Her voice is panicked, desperate and dangerous. 

There would be no harm in having her pass on the message of our location, as long as she followed strict rules.

"Very well. If a Ranger comes, you must tell them of a band of orcs which head this way. There is an ambush, and I will give you a map to its location. You mustn't speak of this map to any but those who can tell you the name of our chieftain is Aragorn. Tell them they are thrice our number, and that aid is needed."

"Thrice? You cannot stop that many."

"We may, we may."

"You will not! It is so purely improbable that I refuse to believe you. Take men of Bree to fight, they will."

"I cannot, Ellen."

"But these are our lands! We have been here for so many years…" her throat hitches in a sob, and I pull her close.

"There is no help that they can give, Ellen. But if will stop those silly tears, I will make you a vow. You must give my message to all Rangers who pass, and if our battle goes ill, I will send news to you. You can prepare the men of Bree to fight, if we do not succeed. But you must not speak a word of it to anyone until a green handkerchief is delivered to you."

She nods her acceptance, and no more words are spoken between us. She sleeps, but I will stay awake, contemplating the dawn that will take me away from someone I have only just met. But if I have known her for so short a time, why does my heart tug at the thought of leaving? A promise made echoes in my head, a promise made to stop tears I should have been glad to see fall. I have allowed my actions to be decided by this woman, and I cannot explain why. Questions I ask, and questions are all I receive. 

Dawn is a welcome sight. I finish saddling Alassë as the first birds sing their morning tunes, and head down the road. In the room, she stills sleeps, blissfully unaware that all that is left of me is a hurried map on the pillow and a lingering scent. 

Duty has called.

.........

Somewhat long, and some actual (rather tired) plot. Reviews and feedback still appreciated.


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